Death’s Door

Made of mud.
Made of gravel.
Made of sand.
Made of God’s mind.
Full of clouds.
Made of all things porous.
On the window-glass:

Jack Frost’s elaborate seascapes and candelabras,
cathedrals and bell-towers.
A million chattering children.
Whispering women.
Men in taxis and tanks, sobbing.
Wild dogs.
Rejected light.
Cats, like coughing.
And the sun with a blinding spade

digging, in the snow, a grave, throwing
the brilliance over his shoulder:

I am Significance.
And this is your door.

Printed from Cerise Press:

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